[Illustration: 0207]
_Imogen._
[_Referring to her part._] What do I say?
_Tom._
Nothing--you yawn.
_Imogen._
[_Yawning, in a perfunctory way._] Oh--h!
_Tom._
As if you meant it, of course.
_Imogen._
Well, of course.
_Tom._
Your yawn must tell the audience that you are a young lady who may be
driven by boredom to almost any extreme.
_O'Dwyer._
[_Jumping up._] This sort of thing. [_Yawning extravagantly._] He--oh!
_Tom._
[_Irritably._] Thank you, O'Dwyer; thank you.
_O'Dwyer._
[_Sitting again._] You're welcome.
_Tom._
[_To Rose._] You speak.
_Rose._
[_Reading from her part--retaining the needles and the end of the
wool._] "What are you reading, Miss Chaffinch?"
_Imogen._
[_Reading from her part. _] "A novel."
_Rose._
"And what is the name of it?"
_Imogen._
"The Seasons."
_Rose._
"Why is it called that?"
_Imogen._
"Because all the people in it do seasonable things."
_Rose._
"For instance----?"
_Imogen._
"In the Spring, fall in love."
_Rose._
"In the Summer?"
_Imogen._
"Become engaged. Delightful!"
_Rose._
"Autumn?"
_Imogen._
"Marry. Heavenly!"
_Rose._
"Winter?"
_Imogen._
"Quarrel. Ha, ha, ha!"
_Tom._
[_To Imogen._] Close the book--with a bang----
_O'Dwyer._
[_Bringing his hands together sharply by way of suggestion. _] Bang!
_Tom._
[_Irritably._] Yes, yes, O'Dwyer. [_To Imogen._] Now rise----
_O'Dwyer._
Up ye get!
_Tom._
And cross to Dora.
_Imogen._
[_Going to Rose._] "Miss Harrington, don't you wish occasionally that
you were engaged to be married?"
_Rose._
"No."
_Imogen._
"Not on wet afternoons?"
_Rose._
"I am perfectly satisfied with this busy little life of mine, as your
aunt's Companion."
_Tom._
[_To Imogen._] Walk about, discontentedly.
_Imogen._
[_Walking about._] "I've nothing to do; let's tell each other our ages."
_Rose._
"I am nineteen."
_Tom._
[_To Imogen._] In a loud whisper----
_Imogen._
"I am twenty-two."
_O'Dwyer._
[_Rising and going to Tom._] Now, hadn't ye better make that
six-and-twenty?
_Imogen._
[_Joining them, with asperity._] Why? why?
_Tom._
No, no, certainly not. Go on.
_Imogen._
[_Angrily._] Not till Mr. O'Dwyer retires into his corner.
_Tom._
O'Dwyer.----[_O'Dwyer takes his chair, and retires to the
"prompt-corner," out of sight, with the air of martyrdom. Tom addresses
Rose._] You speak.
_Rose._
"I shall think, and feel, the same when I am twenty-two, I am sure. I
shall never wish to marry."
_Tom._
[_To Imogen._] Sit on the stump of the tree.
_Imogen._
Where's that?
_Tom._
[_Pointing to the stool down the stage._] Where that stool is.
_Imogen._
[_Sitting on the stool._] "Miss Harrington, who is the Mr. Gerald Leigh
who is expected down to-day?"
_Rose._
"Lord Parracourt's secretary."
_Imogen._
"Old and poor!"
_Rose._
"Neither, I believe. He is the son of a college chum of Lord
Parracourt's--so I heard his lordship tell Lady McArchie--and is
destined for public life."
_Imogen._
"Then he's young!"
_Rose._
"Extremely, I understand."
_Imogen._
[_Jumping up, in obedience to a sign from Tom._] "Oh, how can you be so
spiteful!"
Rose.
"I!"
_Imogen._
"You mean he's too young!"
_Rose._
"Too young for what?"
_Imogen._
"Too young for--oh, bother!"
_Tom._
[_Looking towards the keen-faced gentleman._] Mr. Denzil.
_O'Dwyer._
[_Putting his head round the corner._] Mr. Denzil!
[_The keen-faced gentleman comes forward, reading his part, and meets
Imogen._]
_The Gentleman._
[_Speaking in the tones of an old man._] "Ah, Miss Peggy!"
_Tom._
[_To Rose._] Rise, Miss Trelawny.
_O'Dwyer._
[_His head again appearing._] Rise, darlin'!
[_Rose rises._]
_The Gentleman._
[_To Imogen._] "Your bravura has just arrived from London. Lady McArchie
wishes you to try it over; and if I may add my entreaties----"
_Imogen._
[_Taking his arm._] "Delighted, Lord Parracourt. [_To Rose._] Miss
Harrington, bring your work indoors and hear me squall. [_To the
Gentleman._] Why, you must have telegraphed to town!"
_The Gentleman._
[_As they cross the stage._] "Yes, but even telegraphy is too sluggish
in executing your smallest command."
[_Imogen and the keen-faced gentleman go off on the left. He remains in
the wings, she returns to the prompt-table._]
_Rose._
"Why do Miss Chaffinch and her girl-friends talk of nothing, think of
nothing apparently, but marriage? Ought a woman to make marriage the
great object of life? can there be no other? I wonder----"
[_She goes off, the wool trailing after her, and disappears into the
Green-room. The ball of wool remains in the center of the stage._]
_Tom._
[_Reading from his manuscript._] "The piano is heard; and Peggy's voice
singing. Gerald enters----"
_Imogen._
[_Clutching Tom's arm._] There----!
_Tom._
Ah, yes, here is Mr. Gordon.
[_Arthur appears, in a traveling coat. Tom and Imogen hasten to him and
shake hands with him vigorously._]
_Tom._
[_On Arthur's right._]How are you?
_Imogen._
[_On his left nervously._] How are you?
_Arthur._
[_Breathlessly._] Miss Parrott! Mr. Wrench! forgive me if I am late; my
cab-horse galloped from the station---
_Tom._
We have just reached your entrance. Have you read your part over?
_Arthur._
Read it! [_Taking it from his pocket._] I know every word of it! it has
made my journey from Bristol like a flight through the air! Why, Mr.
Wrench [_turning over the leaves of his part_], some of this is almost
me!
_Tom. and Imogen._
[_Nervously._] Ha, ha, ha!
_Tom._
Come! you enter! [_pointing to the right_] there! [_returning to the
prompt-table with Imogen_] you stroll on, looking about you! Now, Mr.
Gordon!
_Arthur._
[_Advancing to the center of the stage, occasionally glancing at his
part._] "A pretty place. I am glad I left the carriage at the lodge and
walked through the grounds."
[_There is an exclamation, proceeding from the auditorium, and the sound
of the overturning of a chair._]
_Imogen._
Oh!
_O'Dwyer._
[_Appearing, looking into the auditorium._] What's that? This is the
noisiest theatre I've ever set foot in----!
_Tom._
Don't heed it! [_To Arthur._] Go on, Mr. Gordon.
_Arthur._
"Somebody singing. A girl's voice. Lord Parracourt made no mention of
anybody but his hostess--the dry, Scotch widow. [_Picking up the ball of
wool._] This is Lady McArchie's, I'll be bound. The very color suggests
spectacles and iron-gray curls----"
_Tom._
Dora returns. [_Calling._] Dora!
_O'Dwyer._
Dora! where are ye?
_The Gentleman._
[_Going to the Green-room door._]Dora! Dora!
[_Rose appears in the wings._]
_Rose._
[_To Tom._] I'm sorry.
_Tom._
Go on, please!
[_There is another sound, nearer the stage, of the overturning of some
object._]
_O'Dwyer._
What---?
_Tom._
Don't heed it!
_Rose._
[_Coming face to face with Arthur._]
Oh----!
_Arthur._
Rose.!
_Tom._
Go on, Mr. Gordon!
_Arthur._
[_To Rose, holding out the ball of wool._] "I beg your pardon--are you
looking for this?"
_Rose._
"Yes, I--I--I----" [_Dropping her head upon his breast._] Oh, Arthur!
[_Sir William enters, and comes forward on Arthur's right._]
_Sir William._
Arthur.
_Arthur._
[_Turning to him._] Grandfather!
_O'Dwyer._
[_Indignantly._] Upon my soul-----!
_Tom._
Leave the stage, O'Dwyer!
[_O'Dwyer vanishes. Imogen goes to those who are in the wings and talks
to them; gradually they withdraw into the Greenroom. Rose sinks on to
the stool; Tom comes to her and stands beside her._]
_Sir William._
What's this? what is it----?
_Arthur._
[_Bewildered._] Sir, I--I--you--and--and Rose--are the last persons I
expected to meet here----
_Sir William._
Ah-h-h--h!
_Arthur._
Perhaps you have both already learned, from Mr. Wrench or Miss Parrott,
that I have--become--a gypsy, sir?
_Sir William._
Not I; [_pointing to Tom and Imogen_] these--these people have thought
it decent to allow me to make the discovery for myself.
[_He sinks into the throne-chair. Tom goes to Sir William. Arthur joins
Imogen; they talk together rapidly and earnestly._]
_Tom._
[_To Sir William._] Sir William, the secret of your grandson's choice of
a profession----
_Sir William._
[_Scornfully._] Profession!
_Tom._
Was one that I was pledged to keep as long as it was possible to do so.
And pray remember that your attendance here this morning is entirely
your own act. It was our intention----
_Sir William._
[_Struggling to his feet._] Where is the door? the way to the door?
_Tom._
And let me beg you to understand this, Sir William--that Miss Trelawny
was, till a moment ago, as ignorant as yourself of Mr. Arthur Gower's
doings, of his movements, of his whereabouts. She would never have
thrown herself in his way, in this manner. Whatever conspiracy----------
_Sir William._
Conspiracy! the right word--conspiracy!
_Tom._
Whatever conspiracy there has been is my own--to bring these two young
people together again, to make them happy----
[_Rose holds out her hand to Tom; he takes it._]
They are joined by Imogen.
_Sir William._
[_Looking about him._] The door! the door!
_Arthur._
[_Coming to Sir William._] Grandfather, may I, when rehearsal is over,
venture to call in Cavendish Square----?
_Sir William._
Call----!
_Arthur._
Just to see Aunt Trafalgar, sir? I hope Aunt Trafalgar is well, sir.
_Sir William._
[_With a slight change of tone._] Your Great-aunt Trafalgar? Ugh, yes, I
suppose she will consent to see ye----
_Arthur._
Ah, sir----!
_Sir William._
But I shall be out; I shall not be within doors.
_Arthur._
Then, if Aunt Trafalgar will receive me, sir, do you think I may be
allowed to--to bring Miss Trelawny with me----?
_Sir William._
What! ha, I perceive you have already acquired the impudence of your
vagabond class, sir; the brazen effrontery of a set of----!
_Rose._
[_Rising and facing him._] Forgive him! forgive him! oh, Sir William,
why may not Arthur become, some day, a _splendid_ gypsy?
_Sir William._
Eh?
_Rose._